Broken
by pseudoricked
Summary: Nothing could bring Rick Sanchez to care about anything anymore. A broken man, one half of two puzzle pieces.


The clock above his head read 12:32 a.m. Rick wandered the garage, pacing aimlessly. Parts and inventions were strewed haphazardly across his makeshift workshop, piling up in every available nook and cranny. This did not disrupt the distraught man's stride, nothing could anymore.

Not a thing in the world could make Rick Sanchez care anymore.

Rick's head started to pound, and the man brushed it off as an unknown ailment of his old age. Much to his frustration, the incessant pounding only increased in intensity, disrupting his aimless meandering about his workspace.

"Where-where the fuck is my flask?" Rick muttered, knocking piles of clutter off of shelves in a fruitless attempt to find his misplaced alcohol vessel. To his dismay, his flask was nowhere to be found. The pounding in his head continued, a relentless metronome, reminding him of the mere pain of existence.

"Well, turns out the Meeseeks were right about something, weren't they," Rick said to himself, sneering at the lack of alcohol in his garage. He gave up the futile search and decided to face the inevitable – he would have to venture into the house to find some of the sacred liquid.

"Fuck me," Rick half-whispered as he slammed the door entering the Smith residence open. Too late, he realized that he should have been quieter opening the door, because now whoever was home must have heard his noisy entrance and would rush for the chance to bug the ever-loving shit out of him. Just great.

Rick shuffled through the hallways of his wife's house, his former home, merely a shell of what it used to be. The air was cold, and the walls felt like they were closing in on him, suffocating him with memories of what they used to hold. He scrunched his eyes shut and shook his head vigorously to clear his mind – now was not the time to lose his composure. You have one goal, he reminded himself. Find your flask and get the fuck out of this hellhole.

As he neared the kitchen entryway, Rick slowed to a tiptoe, approaching the room in question with caution. He peeked his head inside to make sure the coast was clear, then flicked the light on and began to rummage about. Rick opened the fridge and let out a hushed, "Bingo!" as he found the flask in question. Ah, whiskey, my old friend.

You never let me down, Rick thought as he took a large swig of the liquor, finishing off what was left in the flask. He retrieved a backup bottle of alcohol and proceeded to refill the container.

"Well, well, Rick, it's nice to see that you're not dead."

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Rick exclaimed, dropping the flask and whiskey in the heat of the moment. The piercing crash of shattering glass among the kitchen tile floor accented Rick's surprise as he turned to the source of his shock. "Way to go, Jerry. I hope you know I'm not cleaning that up." Rick grimaced at the end of his declaration for good measure.

Jerry narrowed his eyes in response. "Don't even start Rick. It's just lovely that you can't even be a part of this family, or acknowledge that we all exist, or even come into this damn house unless you need something! Do you know how disrespectful that is? How you're tearing this family apart?"

Rick clenched his fists in anger, the throbbing in his head increasing tenfold. "No, you don't start, Jerry. It's the middle of the fucking night, my head is about to explode, and I'm just really not in the mood for your bullshit right now. Sorry to burst your bubble, asshole." He stepped over the broken glass and went to sidestep Jerry on his way out of the kitchen, but Jerry put a hand on his chest to stop him.

"Oh, really? Well, I'm not in the mood to deal with my wife's jerk father whose one goal in life is to rip away the things I care about, so that makes two of us." Jerry huffed indignantly.

Fuck. Why does he make everything so goddamn difficult? "Okay, Jerry, since you really want to do this now, fine. Let's get this over with. First of all, quit with the bullshit accusations. I don't exist solely to rip away the things you care about, and you know it. You're not that important in the grand scheme of things, Jerry. Get your head out of your ass." Rick instinctively went to take a swig from his flask, only to realize with another flare of anger that his flask was on the floor among the spilled alcohol and glass shards. He sighed angrily, then continued. "Secondly, I'm not tearing this family apart. If I was, wouldn't I have to be around more? You said it yourself, I'm not around. Should make you happy, you hate my guts as it is. But typical Jerry, when there's nothing to complain about, you create something."

Jerry clenched his hand on Rick's chest tight, gripping Rick's shirt with great contempt. "And it's just like you to twist things around and avoid the true issues. Ever since Morty died, you've avoided this house and this family like the black plague. We're all grieving here, Rick, and the least you could do is actually be a part of this family you're supposedly a member of. Especially since Morty's death is your fault, anyways." Jerry started to choke up at the end of his monologue, angry tears welling up in his eyes but refusing to fall.

Rick flushed crimson. This asshole doesn't understand anything. Not a goddamn thing. "You're not in a place to be flinging these loaded accusations around, fuckwad. I may have tendencies to be reckless, and yes, we lost my grandson on one of our space trips, and I suffer every waking moment bearing that truth. But you are in no place to be telling me that Morty's death is my fault, you absolute fucking moron. At least I took him out on adventures. I talked to him, I bonded with him, I was his one true friend. More than I can say for you, or even for my daughter – you two were always too busy fighting to care about your son and his social life, or lack thereof. Before me, he had no friends. Morty was bullied constantly at school, and had to return home everyday to parents who were too busy screaming at each other's throats to care about his problems. I mean, I'm an asshole too, but at least when I came into the picture, he had someone who cared!" Rick's voice had risen to a shout by the end of his spew, which drew a tired Beth and Summer from their bedrooms to the source of the noise.

"Dad? Jerry? What's going on?" Beth inquired, Summer rubbing her sleep-leaden eyes beside her. Rick tiredly looked at Beth, then Summer, and back to Jerry. Tired. He was so tired. Tired of the yelling, the avoidance, the broken home, the haunting memories of what was.

Tired of it all.

Looking at the remaining Smiths, Rick realized in that moment that he had had enough. What was the point of arguing, or of remaining here, when no one understood anything and Rick didn't belong regardless? Without Morty, the family unit was broken, and the Smith residence toxic. There was no place for Rick here anymore.

An exhausted Rick sidestepped Jerry and approached his daughter. "Nothing, sweetie, I was just on my way out." He kissed her forehead, then gave Summer a brief hug. He walked past Jerry, then paused and turned around. "Take care of my daughter, Jerry." The Smiths, sensing something off in Rick's demeanor, eyed him concernedly. Rick walked out of the house and into the garage. He retrieved his portal gun and some spare clothes, then got into his spaceship. Turning the machine on, he set his destination for the furthest dimension his spaceship had fuel for and took off without looking back.

Nothing could bring Rick Sanchez to care about anything anymore.

A broken man, one half of two puzzle pieces.

No matter. Rick thought, pulling out some whiskey from the emergency stash he kept stored in his ship. At least whiskey never lets me down. He took a large sip of the liquor, knowing that he was just lying to himself.

But, then, he couldn't bring himself to care about that either.

The ship flew on, leaving dimension C-137 behind, and all the memories it held.


End file.
